The Thing That Goes Bump in the Night
by queen.of.mud
Summary: Wholock one-shot. When Sherlock disappears in the middle of the night, John decides to follow him. Could he be leading a double life?


Sherlock often went on little wanders. Every Tuesday night around midnight. Within a week of moving in with Sherlock, John began to notice them. But only after moving out, did he think much of it.

One night, fed up with mystery in his own life, John followed him. With Mary out like a log with her swollen belly, it was easy to sneak past. Wearing the same dark overcoat and blue scarf he always wore, Sherlock quietly closed the door markeQd 221b and trotted away. The pitter-patter of his feet echoed quietly against the walls of Baker Street. He snuck down roads that John realized he had never noticed before, and before long John found himself outside a small barn.

Bitter wind bit his nose and cheeks and he tried to block his face from the forceful gusts of cold air. It was futile.

John couldn't find reason in his brain to explain why-and how- such large unused property could be found in the centre of London.

What on earth was Sherlock doing here in the middle of the night? As Sherlock went in the front door, John quickly did a quick lap around the structure and found a dirty window. He brushed the dirt and grime off with his sleeve. Looking in, them interior of the barn was empty. Covering the concrete floors were bales of hay and dirt.

The only valuable respect was some kind of old phone box- no, a police box from the 50's- stored in the corner. Looking in again, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Surely he wasn't in the box, for what kind of madman would sneak away just to sit in a claustrophobic area?

Sherlock would.

Go inside! Said an annoyingly high pitched vice from somewhere in the back of John's mind.

Find out! John slowly and cautiously lifted the wooden lock used to lock the door from the outside.

From the outside, it all seemed too... Perfect. The colors were just right, the angles were a smudge to sharp. Almost as if it were a painting.

Inside the barn seemed much more realistic. The hay made a bothersome ticklish feeling on the back of his ankles; the bitter winter wind had decreased dramatically, making it easier to consider his surroundings; and most attention grabbing, the odd blue coloured phone box seemed to glow more vibrantly.

John suddenly found himself getting closer to the box. Closer. And closer... Until suddenly the doors opened by themselves. He didn't pull, as the sign on the front said to. He didn't push, or even knock.

He shielded his eyes with his hand; the light the interior box was giving was unbearable at first.

"Sherlock Holmes." The easily recognizable voice of John's previous flatmate boomed throughout the barn. As John's vision cleared, he could see his best friend in a room that seemed to fill space that wasn't there. He stepped into the box, and found himself transported into a different world. High tech circular machinery patterned the walls. A round desk surrounded the middle, where in the centre, it shot up with glass that bobbed up and down hike making a familiar noise. That noise popped up every once and a while, all through John's life. At his sixth birthday party, his primary school graduation, even at his Gran's funeral. After a moment of silence, Sherlock began to speak again.

"He was a fictional character from a series of stories by the early Scottish novelist Arthur Conan Doyle. I put a perception filter around all the novels so you wouldn't link me with him." Sherlock smiled, and then snapped his fingers.

Through his gloved hand, not much sound came out, but behind him, John felt a gust of air and heard a quiet bang. He turned around to see the doors of the box closed.

"What- Who are you?" John pleaded through an angry tear or two barely slipping from his eye.

Sherlock responded with a simple phrase that John himself had stated on many and multiple occasions, but never did it sound as it did coming out of the mouth of his best friend.

"I'm the Doctor."


End file.
